


My Father Before Me

by telleer



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telleer/pseuds/telleer
Summary: Even after twenty years, Rodney still has no idea how to raise children.





	My Father Before Me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written and posted elsewhere in 2008. Re-posting here now simply so I won't lose it. Big thanks to kinberlyfdr for the beta. 
> 
> Feedback in general is loved; concrit is adored.

Rodney is armed with bad latte and his best shirt. It feels completely inadequate. Somehow, something is going to go wrong today. If nothing else, there will be a flood or a hurricane or an earthquake. 

The Tim Hortons at the airport has no chairs or stools; the customers rarely stay there to finish their coffees. Rodney stands at one of the small tables, annoyed, drumming his fingers on any available surface and reading through the redundant advertising material on the leaflet he was given with his latte. He's got dark shadows under his eyes, and if it weren't for the jeans, he'd look like he was on his way to an important business meeting. 

People are busy around him, noisy and hurried and tired and cranky, and it doesn't help Rodney's mood at all. The worst are the screaming parents and their crying children. The world is so full of unpleasant noise. 

The small, noisy children make him feel even older than usual. Watching the little blonde-haired girl giggle and try to hide under the next table over, then stepping irritably out of the way of her only slightly older but no less giggly big brother, Rodney thinks that if things had gone differently for him, those could be his grandchildren. Those could be his _grandchildren_. In sarcastic self-irony, Rodney wonders if he should find himself a chair or something else to sit in so that he won't fall over and break one of his old, fragile bones. 

In the end, it's Patrick who finds him before it even occurs to him to go looking. Apparently his flight was on time for once. Rodney doesn't know how long Patrick's been watching him; suddenly, Rodney just looks up and Patrick is right there, standing a few meters away from him. People bump into Patrick as they pass him by, but he doesn't move, doesn't flinch away at all, just keeps on staring at Rodney. At his feet, there's one duffle bag, and the clothes he's wearing look much too big for him. 

Patrick's hair is pitch black and buzz cut. The last time Rodney saw him, the hair was ginger and constantly poking Patrick in the eye. It's not a surprise in the least; with Patrick, hair color never seems to stick for more than a few months at a time. With Patrick, few things ever stick for long. 

It's been nearly five years, but there is nothing about Patrick's appearance, the way he looks, the way he stands, the way his eyes burn, that Rodney finds surprising. Patrick looks familiar, despite the five years that have turned the angry, rebellious boy Rodney remembers into this young man – whoever this young man may be.

They stand there for a minute, stupidly, staring at one another, the older man and the kid. Then Rodney says, "Uh, hello." 

Patrick doesn't say anything. 

"Have you got all your bags?" Rodney asks. 

Patrick half-blinks, half-rolls his eyes. Rodney, recognizing the gesture, knows it means that the question he's just raised is a non-issue and he shouldn't worry about it. 

"Would you, um, like some coffee?" Rodney gestures at the counter, and the college girl standing quietly behind it, serving coffees and offering the customers tired smiles. 

This time, Patrick shakes his head. 

Is this how it's going to be? No talking? Rodney keeping up a pathetic one-sided conversation? Just like old times?

"Right, then," Rodney says brusquely. "The car's this way."

He leaves his half-empty cup of coffee at the table and steps into the crowd, starting to follow its pull towards the main exit. After only a few steps, he turns back around and extends his hand to take the bag Patrick has picked up. Pretending the hand isn't even there, Patrick secures the strap over his shoulder and slips past Rodney without looking at him. 

Outside, the Vancouver sunshine is nearly blinding. Rodney has been inside the terminal for so long the weather has completely changed from the light rain that was coming down before, and he has to take a moment to re-orient himself. The afternoon sun is hot and unforgiving, and there isn't even a breeze. Patrick pulls out a pair of aviator sunglasses and puts them on, effectively hiding his eyes and blocking out everyone and everything. Rodney looks down and fumbles for his own sunglasses. 

Patrick walks to the parking lot, occasionally glancing at Rodney to make sure he's going the right way. Once they get there, he loiters around, looking at the cars, not finding the familiar one. Rodney is momentarily puzzled when Patrick passes by the Jaguar without a recognizing glance – has Patrick _forgotten_? – before realizing he's only had the car for a few years. 

He presses the button and the lights flicker. Patrick does a double take, glancing at Rodney in disbelief, and when Rodney just smiles in confirmation, Patrick leans in for a closer look. He runs his hand along the lines of the car, not quite touching, just appreciating. Rodney opens the trunk and, instead of offering to do it himself, waits for Patrick to put the bag in. 

Patrick looks rather like a cat, his long neck stretched, curious eyes focused on the vehicle. He also has that same, barely-contained energy. Rodney watches him for a moment before opening the driver's side door. 

"Can I drive?" asks Patrick. 

Rodney blinks. "I moved," he says, stupidly. 

Patrick doesn't argue back. His only visible reaction is his mouth settling into a thin line. He opens the passenger side door and gets in, each movement almost mechanical. 

Rodney regrets it immediately. For a desperate second, he tries to come up with a way to take it back, but can only think of things that sound either childish, condescending, or both. He's never been any good at talking to Patrick. In the end, he just gets in the car and starts the engine. 

The ride home is a quiet one but, despite the itching urge to do so, Rodney doesn't break the silence. Patrick appears to be deep in thought, or maybe just deep in pretending to be thinking, and it's just as well.

Rodney's new apartment is high up in a complex downtown. They take the elevator, and Patrick keeps his sunglasses on even inside. Rodney watches the floor number go up and tries not to fidget. 

The apartment is beautifully lit with the afternoon sunlight when they enter, and Rodney sends silent thanks to the whirring air conditioning that keeps the place cool. The door has barely closed behind them when Patrick is already toeing off his shoes, not caring where they land. Without saying anything about it, Rodney takes off his own shoes before giving Patrick a quick tour. 

"Kitchen, living room, my home office, my bedroom, the bathroom," he says, standing in the doorway of the living room, pointing at the doors one at a time. 

Finally taking off his sunglasses, Patrick looks around, taking blankly in the white walls and wood-colored doorframes and the electronic junk piling up on every possible surface. He gives a suspicious look to the closed doors Rodney hasn't said anything about, his mouth tightening. 

Rodney waits nervously, wondering if Patrick will ask about them or not. It could go either way, really. Sometimes Patrick is curious enough to ask – gallant enough to make conversation. Sometimes he seems to think Rodney is insane and asking any questions is a waste of time and brain cells. 

"What about those?" Patrick says finally, gesturing at the three closed doors with a tilt of his chin. 

Something calm and cool sweeps through Rodney, like relief. "They're guestrooms, of sorts," he says, feeling bolder now. "I was thinking you could sleep here." 

He walks to the door furthest from the hallway and opens it, turning to look expectantly at Patrick, who is still standing in the same spot. Slowly, Patrick comes closer, craning his neck to peer into the room. He walks deeper into the apartment cautiously, almost nervously, looking like he expects to be attacked at any moment. 

In the room Rodney's showing Patrick, there's a bed pressed against the far wall, a desk in front of the window, and in the corner now obscured by the door, there's a closet. Basically, it looks like any guest room. But here, the books on the shelf are all classic science fiction, and the lamp on the desk is old, and the ceiling is decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars. The sheets on the bed, now covered by the duvet, are hockey-themed. Patrick blinks at the flat TV screen attached to the ceiling and takes a double take at the familiar stereo equipment. Cautiously, he slips into the room and, with a look of mild horror on his face, opens the closet door. 

Rodney can't help it anymore; he fidgets. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he's telling himself, this is all so old and outdated. Patrick isn't the same person anymore. Rodney should have thrown it all out instead of brining it all here. What twenty-one-year-old would miss the stuff he had at the age of sixteen? 

"Or," Rodney says hoarsely, "you can sleep in the actual guest room." 

"You kept all my stuff, Dad," Patrick says instead of giving Rodney any sort of answer. 

"Not all of it," Rodney says defensively. It's true. Patrick's old room was twice the size of this one, walls covered with posters of hockey players and boxes full of childhood toys stuffed under the bed. All of it couldn't possibly fit into the new room.

"Well," Patrick says, poking at the insides of the closet, "at least you kept all my _socks_."

Rodney counters, "There was a chance you might not have grown out of them all." 

For a few minutes, Patrick keeps poking at the various clothes he'd probably forgotten all about, and Rodney stands by the door, trying to resist the urge to tap his foot. Casually, Patrick looks up at the ceiling and, suddenly distracted, leaves the clothes be. The closet door closes softly. 

"What are those?" Patrick asks. "Is this some sort of a puzzle?" 

For a moment, Rodney thinks he means the stars, and thinks again, _has he forgotten_? They are the same stars they put on the ceiling, together, not long after the three of them had moved in to the big house, almost sixteen years ago. Of course, Rodney had to take them down to move them all here, but they’re still the same stars. Then Rodney realizes Patrick isn't talking about the stars themselves, but the constellations. 

"I don't recognize any of these," Patrick says, and for the first time since he got to Vancouver, his voice carries something other than blankness: he sounds bewildered. 

Frowning, Rodney looks at the constellations he's put up. They all make perfect sense to him. No, no, there isn't supposed to be anything tricky or unusual about them. 

"Oh, wait, there's Cassiopeia," Patrick says, and points at the sort-of-double-u right above his head. "But what are these others?" 

"They," Rodney says, realization dawning. His throat feels tight all of a sudden. "They're further out in space," he says. "From the time when I was working on deep space telemetry. In Colorado." The words come out wheezy and unsteady. It's been so long since he's told that particular lie. 

Patrick seems to take it at face value. He nods, slowly. "I like them," he says. "Think I'll sleep here tonight." 

And that's the grudging sign of acceptance Rodney has barely dared hope for. He lets out a breath and says, "Right then. Have you got your laptop?" 

Shaking his head, Patrick offers him a half-smile. "Traveling light," he says. 

"Okay," Rodney says. "I have some extras; I'll get you one." 

He turns around, grateful to have an excuse to turn his back. Hidden from Patrick's view, he smiles, just a little.

 

+++

 

When Patrick resurfaces from his room in the morning, Rodney's made sure to be up and have breakfast at hand. He got up at six to set the table even though he had no idea how early Patrick would be up. In his early teens, Patrick used to sleep until midday at least if given the chance, but just before moving out he got into the habit of getting up with the sun and going outside for a while before breakfast. Rodney never found out exactly why it was important to the 16-year-old Patrick to go out in the mornings, but based on the clothes and the messy state he was usually in when he came home to shower and have breakfast, there was some sort of physical activity involved. 

The last years, apparently, haven't changed Patrick in that respect, Rodney comes to realize when the door to Patrick's room opens. It's before seven. The boy hasn't regained his appreciation for sleeping in. 

"Morning!" Rodney calls quickly. In response, he gets an indistinct murmur and the bang of the bathroom door closing behind Patrick. 

Rodney clicks on the coffee maker and sets about finishing breakfast. When Patrick wanders into the kitchen a few minutes later, face freshly scrubbed but still bleary-eyed, Rodney is in the process of making pancakes. 

Patrick stares at Rodney for a moment, looking like he isn't sure whether to be pleased or irritated. It occurs to Rodney, in a moment of painful insight, that it's likely Patrick had been looking forward to his every-morning routine of his physical activity of choice. Rodney schools his features into something he hopes will cover up his disappointment, and waits for Patrick to turn down the offer of breakfast with him. 

Without saying a word, however, Patrick looks at the table suspiciously and then sits down. Maybe Patrick's given up on his morning routine. Maybe he's decided to give this morning a miss due to being on holiday. Maybe he's being indulgent, not wanting to fight with Rodney any more than Rodney wants to fight with him. 

Rodney makes a mental note to have the next breakfast around nine. 

The sun is rising over the horizon. Sunrises aren't particularly beautiful when you are looking at them from this apartment, Rodney has come to realize, but in the evening the location is perfect. The sun sets in the sea, every night, treating Rodney with brilliant shades of red and orange. 

Finished with the pancakes, Rodney turns the stove off and takes the pile of them to the table. He sits down opposite of Patrick and makes a vague go-ahead gesture while pouring himself juice. Patrick takes one of the pancakes on his plate and starts eating like any healthy 21-year-old: with enthusiasm. 

"These are really good, Dad," Patrick says. It sounds a little off-handed, like he's saying it just to say something, but Rodney appreciates the sentiment. Besides, even then it's probably true – Rodney likes to think he still knows how Patrick likes his pancakes. 

"Thanks," Rodney says. "Breakfast won't be this early every day, so you know – I just happened to be up this morning." He's pleased to note he sounds just as casual and haughty as he hoped to sound; apparently his old acting skills are still somewhat intact. 

Patrick, who surely sees through the lie, shrugs one shoulder and gives Rodney a quietly amused look while stuffing more pancakes and maple syrup into his mouth. "Sure, Dad," he murmurs with his mouth full of food. 

For a few minutes, they eat in peace. This is how it used to be, on better days, and Rodney feels something twist in his chest. It feels like longing. On worse days, they never got the opportunity to eat together, what with Patrick skipping breakfast just to avoid Rodney. 

"Is there anything in particular you'd like to do today? Something you'd like to see in Vancouver?" Rodney asks. 

Swallowing and taking a sip of his coffee, Patrick gives his head a shake. "Not really." 

"You could go visit Jeannie and Kaleb and your cousins," Rodney says carefully. "Or I could take you for a tour."

"Don't you have work to do?" Patrick asks, suspicious. 

Rodney shrugs. "I took some time off, now that you're here and Kim's coming, too." 

Slowly, Patrick goes back to chewing on his food. He shrugs. "Sure, a tour sounds good." 

They go on eating in companionable silence for a while, Rodney feeling like he's won yet another small victory. This is going better than he dared imagine. 

After finishing eating, Rodney sits back in his chair and cradles his fourth cup of coffee. Patrick grabs yet another pancake and Rodney watches with mild horror – the pile of them that he thought would last for at least two days is nearly gone. Maybe they don't feed Patrick properly, wherever it is he's staying these days. God, what if they aren't feeding Patrick properly?

Unaware of Rodney's racing thoughts, Patrick looks peacefully out of the window. "I like the sea," he says between bites. "I miss it, somehow. Funny, isn't it? I miss the sea even though we never lived all that near it, not even in Boston."

Nervous thoughts about Patrick being malnourished coming to a complete, abrupt stop, Rodney focuses on breathing in the scent of coffee. The sea glitters beautifully beyond the window, but he looks resolutely away. 

Patrick eats happily on. 

 

+++

 

The day goes so well Rodney feels like he should be thanking some deity he doesn't believe in. Patrick is relaxed to the point where he lets his guard down just a little and he's actually _funny_. He's always been a clever kid, and his abrasive sense of humor makes it usually crystal clear who it was he grew up with. Still, it isn't every day Rodney gets to witness Patrick's wit in action.

As subtly as possible, which isn't very, Rodney tries to get Patrick to spill something about what it is he does these days. Rodney's been putting more and more money on Patrick's bank account ever since he left home in the hopes that Patrick's going to school somewhere good and needs it for tuition. Rodney also keeps telling Patrick that he can have more if he needs it, but so far, Patrick has seemed satisfied with what he's been given – if he's even touched it. Rodney, who's been periodically increasing the amount to the point of ridiculousness on the off-chance that it'll loosen Patrick's tongue, has no way of knowing. 

Patrick keeps quiet, refusing to tell Rodney anything beyond a few carefully veiled bits of information that hint he's not out of school yet. Rodney feels simultaneously relieved and weirded out, because it's good if Patrick really is still in school, but it's bad if he's studying something he doesn't want to tell Rodney about. 

They get through the day with minimal fuss, only managing to snipe at each other in the grocery store where they disagree about orange juice. Rodney, however, has sworn to himself he'll do anything in his power to avoid fighting, so he goes with what Patrick wants. Thankfully, Patrick seems similarly disinclined to fight, and takes the peace offering as what it is, letting the subject drop.

Rodney prepares a simple dinner and they sit down to eat. Patrick eats enthusiastically, murmuring a half-hearted compliment, and Rodney tries not to panic about malnourishment again. Patrick does look thin.

They are almost done when Patrick puts his fork down slowly. Solemn-eyed, he regards Rodney for a while in silence. Rodney, unnerved but refusing to admit it, keeps eating. 

"You're not my real father, are you?" Patrick says, and time halts to a stop. 

Rodney chokes on his food.

In all honesty, he's been waiting for this question for twenty years now. He's always known it will come up, sooner or later. He's pictured different scenarios – someone from the past accidentally revealing too much, Patrick nosing around and finding Rodney's secret stash of pictures from the beginning of the millennium, Patrick getting a rare genetic disease and Rodney having to say yes to a revealing DNA test – but a calm conversation at dinner table never made it to his list. He pictured shouting, hurtful words, banging doors and frightened neighbors, not meatloaf and background music. 

When Rodney has managed to cough his way out of a life-threatening situation and blink away the water in his eyes, Patrick is still looking at him expectantly. 

"Not biologically, no," Rodney says. 

Rodney expects some sort of explosion. He expects to be bombarded with questions, and grief, and disbelief. He expects – _wants_ – Patrick to demand to know what happened, and why, and who is Rodney, anyway. Instead, Patrick picks up his fork and looks down at his plate. "What's my real name?" he asks eventually. 

Maybe that is the hardest question after all, Rodney thinks, fighting off the sensation of his tongue being glued to the roof of his mouth. It's just a name. "Sheppard." A name he hasn't said out loud in twenty years. 

It comes out soft and sore, like the name itself holds all the time that has passed, all the light years between them, all the sorrow and the determination and the responsibility. All the regret, and pain, and guilt. 

"Patrick John Sheppard?" Patrick says, slowly, tasting it, trying it out. The look on his face tells Rodney he isn't sure yet if he likes it or not. If it feels like him or not. 

"Patrick, yes. Like your grandfather," Rodney says. He feels, oddly, like all his blood has suddenly turned very cold. "You were born Patrick Sheppard," he says quietly. "I changed that to McKay when we… And I added John. Because…"

Patrick says, "Because that was my father's name. John Sheppard."

It isn't a question, but Rodney nods anyway, staring morosely at his meatloaf. "How did you know?" he asks softly. "Not about the name, but…but me not being your biological father."

Not looking up from his plate, Patrick makes a vague gesture at himself. "The Air Force isn't too keen on people dying their hair," he says, poking at his potatoes. "I just took it from there."

Rodney thinks, _so that is his real hair color_. Then he thinks, _of course it would be the hair to give it away_. And then it clicks: _Oh my god, he's in the Air Force._

 

+++

 

Rodney isn't sure how to approach the subject, so he avoids it for a day. Avoidance in the McKay family isn't difficult; Patrick doesn't seem inclined to spend time with him anyway, cooped up in his room, talking on the videophone and spending time on the internet.

After dinner, which is a quiet affair, he nevertheless asks if Patrick would do him the honor of watching a movie with him. He doesn't phrase it quite like that, naturally, trying to play it casual and managing something akin to nervous. Patrick seems to get the gist of it, anyway, reluctantly settling down on the couch without another word. 

It's an Army flick, romanticized and unreal, and Patrick's mouth twitches at the very first scene. Rodney does his best to ignore it, using the movie as a starting point, saying, "So you're in the Air Force." 

He never checked to see, even if it was always on his mind. He never rang up General Samantha Carter and asked her if there was a Patrick McKay listed among those accepted to the Air Force Academy. Foolishly, desperately, he'd looked at the public lists of the entrants of Northwestern and MIT and CalTech, even Harvard, hoping against hope to see his own family name there. 

"Yeah," Patrick says, elaborate as always.

"Still in the Academy, or should I be calling you Lieutenant?" Rodney asks, forcing a touch of teasing humor into his voice. Teasing always worked with – with the Air Force people he's been in contact with.

"One year to go," Patrick says.

Rodney pauses. The words weigh heavy on his tongue. _Your father was in the Air Force_. At the last moment, he bails and asks, "What will you do then?"

Patrick rolls his eyes, just a little. "Then I'll be 2nd Lieutenant and hopefully posted somewhere interesting," he says. 

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the young soldier on screen leave his parents behind. It's not as much a touching moment as it is cheesy, but Rodney feels his eyes itch anyway. 

"It's not all blue skies and nice uniforms, you know," he says quietly. 

"I know." Patrick sounds certain, steady, like he really does know. Like he's thought about it. 

"It's a lot of work, and, and, and – it's a lot of responsibility. And it's dangerous, and – sad." 

Patrick glances sharply at him at the word sad, but only repeats, "I know." 

"Are you sure you want to do it?" Rodney asks, even though he sort of already knows the answer.

"Positive, Dad," Patrick says, and sighs. "Stop trying to control me."

Rodney swallows, a lump growing in his throat. "You're not doing it just to annoy me, are you? You're not doing it to run away, because, because I've had your life all planned out for you since you were fourteen?" 

Patrick blinks, bemused, and turns to actually look at Rodney. "Since I was fourteen?" he says, and then disregards the notion and shakes his head. "No, I'm not doing it because of you." 

"Good," Rodney says, and there's a bit of a squeak in his voice. 

He used to teach huge classes. He's given presentations in front of hundreds of important people. He's presented technological plans to Air Force Colonels and Generals. He's shouted at dozens of people who all worked for him, shouted at them because they'd just put people in danger. 

The only person in front of whom he's never managed to be the least bit convincing is his own son.

 

+++

 

They have their first real fight since Patrick's been back the next day. 

In hindsight, it's a fight that could have been avoided – it could have been a brief exchange of sharp words until things went back to normal, or what passes for normal in the McKay household. Instead, it all blows up in Rodney's face, and not for the first time, Rodney swears he'll be more careful with Patrick in the future, he'll tell Patrick the truth more easily, he'll be less of a coward.

"I'd really like to go sky-diving," Patrick says off-handedly when someone on TV opens a parachute in the sky in a commercial. His voice is distant, like it's an afterthought, and he knows full well Rodney's never approved of any dangerous hobbies, but apparently doesn't care. 

"I'd really like it," Rodney says loudly from the kitchen where he's suspiciously checking the washer-cleaned dishes to see if the stupid state-of-the-art machine missed anything, "if you never had to jump out of an airplane." 

He's going to have nightmares, he just knows it. He's going to see dark-haired pilots catapulted from their crashing planes, floating in the sky, going down. He's going to see the smoking remains of bombers and stealth fighters and choppers. 

"Sky-diving is different," Patrick says a little more sharply, and in the background, Rodney can hear the music from another commercial be cut off and replaced by the steady flow of words about the current state of the economy as Patrick channel-surfs. "It's voluntary. There are no crashing planes involved." 

"Right. Well, I'm not going to pay for someone to take you up and help you get yourself killed." Except that, if Patrick pays for it himself with the money Rodney's been shoving onto his account, Rodney totally is.

Patrick says, "Fuck." Then, annoyance ringing clear in his voice, he continues, "You never let me do anything I wanted to when I was a kid. How about you _back off_ now that I'm an adult? I really don't want your opinion on this." 

"Fine," Rodney snaps, and shoves a pile of plates on one shelf more forcefully than is absolutely necessary. "You never want my opinion on anything." 

"You don't usually have anything of worth to say," Patrick fires back, and oh yeah, they've been down this road before. 

"All you've ever seemed to want in your life are hobbies that are more than likely to get you killed," Rodney says. "Excuse me for not wanting to be a part of that." 

"Sky-diving isn't going to get me killed, Dad!" Patrick says vehemently. "Neither is skateboarding, or surfing, or bungee-jumping, or any of the things I wanted to do when I was younger, and if you had any interest in anything but composite particles, you would know that!" 

Patrick's accused Rodney of selfishness before. It's so old an argument that Rodney doesn't even feel the sting anymore. 

"What I know is that you've always liked putting yourself in danger," Rodney says. "I mean – the _Air Force_." He can hear it in his own voice, the bitterness, the _contempt_. It's been years, and years, but some wounds don't heal; in time, they're merely buried away and nearly, just nearly forgotten. He wipes his hands on a towel, throws it on the counter, and comes to stand at the doorway of the living room, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"There! That's exactly what I'm talking about! Most people would be proud if their son had got into the Air Force Academy," Patrick says. His voice sounds smaller when he demands, "Why can't you be?"

Rodney's first reaction is to point out that the Air Force is positively _lethal_ , but there's a beat of silence, and he reconsiders. Eventually, he forces himself to say, "I guess I should have seen it coming, really. Because – well, your father was in the Air Force."

Patrick stares at Rodney over the back of the couch in silence for a moment. Then he looks like he's been slapped in the face by someone he trusted. His eyes are wide, his mouth lax, and he keeps staring at Rodney as his face grows flushed with – with rage? With regret? 

That's when they both lose control of the situation.

"My father was in the Air Force?" Patrick repeats, shocked to the core, because apparently he hadn't seen that one coming. "My father was in the Air Force, and you didn't _tell me_?" 

It's been days. Rodney's had several opportunities; he's even had the words right on the tip of his tongue. Yet he's backed out every time, because while he knew Patrick deserved to know, he was too cowardly to face it.

"I'm telling you now," Rodney says scratchily, even though it's likely the worst possible excuse in the world. 

"He – he was a soldier? A _pilot_?" The incredulity in Patrick's voice is clear as day, shining through. 

Rodney doesn't understand what's so unbelievable about it. Like father, like son. "Yes," he says. 

"Was he a, a – was he," and Patrick swallows around the word that Rodney's always accused him of being, "reckless?" 

Rodney swallows, though it's difficult. He feels heavy, his throat tight, weariness creeping up on his shoulders. "He was the worst of them," Rodney says truthfully. 

Patrick is still staring at him, eyes wide and disbelieving, full of hurt. When he blinks, a tear drops from one eye and rolls rapidly down his cheek, disappearing under his chin. He doesn't make a move to wipe it away.

Rodney doesn't know how, when, or where it was that Patrick learned to cry. It surely isn't a trait inherited from John. Fighting with Patrick has always been intense, more like war than a familial argument, and even though Patrick ends up shouting through his tears almost every time, it's always a shock to see him cry. It's the physical embodiment of pain, and Rodney knows he's the one who's put the pain there, however unwittingly. 

Sometimes Rodney feels like he's done everything wrong since Patrick was born. Patrick sure seems to think so. Maybe it's that he's only got one parent – only one person to blame for his unhappy life, in addition to himself. 

Rodney used to wonder if things would be different if they were related by blood. He doesn't think so. Patrick would still be Patrick, stubborn and sharp and full of pain, and Rodney would still be Rodney, completely lost at sea.

"Why did you never tell me about him?" Patrick asks, and Rodney can hear genuine confusion in his voice. "All those times that I _hated_ you, why did you never tell me you weren't really my father?" 

It isn't that Patrick says he hates Rodney that gets to him. It isn't even that Patrick means it. What really gets to Rodney and cuts him, deep, is how Patrick is genuinely confused about it, desperate to convince himself there is something else, something better. That life would have been better if his father had lived. Patrick sees Rodney as some kind of monster, and that is the worst part. Rodney has tried everything, has tried his hardest for so long, and all he's managed to inspire in Patrick is hate. 

Patrick's words feel like a bucket of cold water poured on Rodney's anger, his fire. He sags against the doorframe. "It doesn't work that way," he says quietly. "I'm not a stand-in." He takes a few unsteady steps towards the living room table and sits heavily down. "Patrick – I never told you about John, but I also never lied to you." 

It isn't making any sense to Patrick, Rodney can tell. "You never lied to me, even when you told me you were my father?" Patrick says, and he has that look on his face again: _I can't believe you're treating me this badly_. Rodney remembers it from years ago – when Patrick was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.

"I never really knew your mother," Rodney says. "I told you that. It's true. I also told you I'm your father, and that's true, too. Pat, I've always been your father. From the day you…well, from the day you were dropped on John's doorstep." 

It still isn't making any sense to Patrick, but now, Rodney assumes Patrick is just too confused to hear what he's being told. "What, you're like…my godfather?" 

"I love you," Rodney says wearily, because if having children has taught him one thing, it's how to say that and mean it. "You're not like a son to me; you _are_ my son. I also loved your father. I was _in_ love with your father." 

Judging by the dawning look of confused horror on Patrick's face, it is finally starting to make sense. 

Rodney thinks of John, then. It's been so long. They had only been together for a couple of years – they'd only known each other for something like five, six years, when John went and got himself killed. Six years is such a short time, compared to the twenty years Rodney has had with Patrick. 

"You and my father were a _couple_ ," Patrick says, numbly, sounding dumbstruck. 

"Yeah," Rodney says, even though it's been so long that he feels like he can barely remember. "So even if John had never…even if he was still here, that wouldn't mean I wouldn't be." He shrugs, an ironic half-smile on his face.

"That's not funny," Patrick says, harsh and unyielding, and his eyes look like fire. Tired, trapped, useless fire. 

"I know," Rodney says, and the ghost of a smile disappears. 

Patrick just stares at him, one white-knuckles hand holding onto the back of the couch. Rodney thinks he can see Patrick shake, but refuses to look closely enough to know for sure. Patrick says, "This makes no sense." His voice is hoarse and hollow; you can almost hear the tears. "I'm going to go to bed." 

"Good night," Rodney says quickly as Patrick slips from the couch into his room and slams the door closed behind him,

Rodney has always tried to raise both his kids by the rule of never going to bed angry. It's a rule he's broken time and again, but the least he can do, now, is try and tell Patrick he, at least, isn't angry. 

Christ, what a bitch of a situation to be in. 

Rodney lets out a deep breath and buries his face in his hands, trying not to hear the tell-tale sniffling of Patrick, who's still crying. 

 

+++

 

In the morning, Patrick is gone. Rodney has a minor heart attack at the door of his room, thinking Patrick has really left, for good – but upon closer inspection, he realizes most of Patrick's few things are still scattered around the room. He's probably gone to do that physical activity thing again. 

It's likely that Patrick's activity of choice is running, but Rodney doesn't like to think about it. 

In any case, Patrick is not around for Rodney to try to apologize to by offering to let him drive the Jaguar, so Rodney drives to the airport on his own. He's having coffee at the same Tim Hortons where he stood when Patrick spotted him when a flurry of blonde hair appears at his side. 

"Hi, Dad," the girl says with a small smile, putting her bag down between them. "Get me a coffee?" 

And something about that – the brief glimpse of kindness, the smile, putting the bag down at their feet in a way that makes it obvious they're standing there together, even the request he do something for her – something about the situation makes Rodney finally break. After days of dodging sensitive topics and then having a major row over the most sensitive topic of them all, after days of trying to reconcile with Patrick and looking for a sign that maybe his son does love him in the end – after all that, looking into blue eyes that match his own is too much for Rodney to take, and he lets out a wheezing breath. 

"Kimberly," he says, and takes the girl in a crushing hug. 

"Christ, Dad!" she exclaims, hanging on with all her might as her feet leave the ground. "Jesus, are you all right?" 

He puts her down, as astonished by his own strength and reaction as she is. He blinks at the sudden tears in his eyes, and refuses to give the game away by sniffing. "How about a caramel macchiato?" he asks, and can't quite hold back the smile, because even if Patrick regularly wishes him dead, he still has a daughter who loves him.

  


+++

  


Rodney, who still learns from his mistakes, lets Kimberly behind the wheel of the Jaguar. She squeals and makes appreciative noises and almost gives Rodney a heart attack by nearly driving into a tree.

Kimberly is seventeen years old and a student at MIT. She lets Rodney pay for her tuition and everything else, too, but she works hard in her own way and not only is she ahead of her contemporaries, but she also has perfect grades. She calls Rodney on Father's Day and his birthday and sometimes just to chat, or talk about the idiots she goes to school with, or ask about one physics theory or another. She and Patrick are startlingly alike, both of them intelligent and hard-working and tough as nails, but Rodney's relationship with her is the exact opposite of his relationship with Patrick. Patrick is much more emotional, and argues with Rodney more easily; when Rodney says no to Kimberly, she shrugs, drops the subject, and does whatever she wants anyway. 

Kimberly's got the better part of the deal, and they all know it. It's not that she's the baby of the family, or that she's a girl – god, hadn't Rodney freaked out when he realized he was going to have to _bring up a girl_ all on his own – but it's that she wasn't born first. Every mistake Rodney ever made with Patrick, he was able to avoid with Kimberly. It doesn't mean he's been entirely successful with his daughter, but it does mean she's slightly less fucked up in the head than her brother. 

As far as Rodney knows, it's been five years since Patrick and Kimberly have been in any contact, but watching the two of them reunite makes him think otherwise. There's some raising of eyebrows and a smirk from Kimberly and a grin from Patrick. They hug impulsively, and he asks her about school and she makes sarcastic remarks about his thin, short-haired appearance. They act like they've been apart for a few months, not five years. They've been in touch behind his back, Rodney realizes, and instead of making him feel insulted, the thought makes him warm. They're his family, and no matter how they feel about him, at least they love each other.

Patrick looks at Rodney suspiciously while Kimberly glances around the room to see if anything's changed since she last was here. Rodney busies himself making something to eat, and the kids go sit in the living room and play around with his home theatre. 

Over the clatter of pots and pans and the voices on TV, Rodney just barely hears Kimberly ask, "Did you tell Dad?" 

He pricks up his ears, trying to hear Patrick's answer, because another thing having children has taught him is to always be cautious. In family matters, knowledge truly is power. 

"Yeah," Patrick says, and Rodney breathes a sigh of relief. They're not talking about some huge secret they are still concealing, then.

"How did he take it?" Kimberly asks.

"Pretty well, actually," Patrick says, a slightly thoughtful tone to his voice. "Made me watch some Army film so we could talk about it."

Kimberly snorts and says, "That sounds like him."

"He was worried I was in it for the wrong reasons," Patrick says. "But he didn't start fighting."

"Wish I had seen that," Kimberly says, sardonic.

By the time Rodney has managed to put some breakfast on the table, Patrick seems to have got to good spirits. He's smiling when he enters the kitchen right behind Kimberly, but his expression soon turns wary. Rodney pours them all coffee and offers the kids cereal that they both turn down, and puts a plate of muffins and cookies on the table instead, because even if they don’t make for the most nutritional breakfast, they might make his kids hate him a little less for the time being. They've all eaten breakfast already, anyway, so this is more of a pre-lunch meal, an addition to this parody of happy, regulated family life. 

All through the meal, Patrick watches Rodney, and he watches Kimberly, too. She talks about subatomic particles and Rodney adds a few notes about their interaction with cosmic rays, because she's on the right track even if she still has much to learn. When the ordinary nature of their conversation starts getting to him, Patrick abruptly interrupts.

"Does she know?" he asks, chin high. 

Kimberly, who's in the process of pouring herself more coffee, looks up, first at Patrick and then at Rodney. When Rodney hesitates, she says, "Know what?"

"That you and I aren’t related," Patrick says. 

Kimberly's eyebrows rise slowly, but her eyes are more expectant than surprised. She knows the conversation about quarks is now over. "What do you mean?" she says, puts the rest of the coffee away and casually reaches for the sugar. 

"I mean," Patrick says harshly, "that he's not my father, but my dead father's boyfriend." 

In that moment, Rodney feels like dying.

Kimberly's hand freezes momentarily on the spoon in her cup before resuming stirring the coffee. Without raising her head, she glances at Rodney before saying to Patrick, "Okay."

For a moment, everything is quiet. Rodney and Patrick both stare at Kimberly, slightly stunned. Kimberly reaches for a muffin and spends a moment freeing it from the paper. She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully and swallows before asking Patrick, "What happened to your father?"

"He died," Patrick says, and looks at Rodney. 

"He –," Rodney begins without having any idea what he's going to say. He got killed in a war zone. He gave his life to save hundreds of others. He was a hero. "It's classified."

"What?" says Patrick with the air of someone who hopes he just heard wrong. 

"I, I'll, he – I can't give you any details." 

Just as Patrick, with wide eyes and an angry tilt to his jaw, is about to begin demanding answers and shouting at Rodney, Kimberly asks coolly, "Have you got any relatives?"

The fury leaves Patrick as quickly as it filled him. Apparently realizing he doesn't know the answer to this question, either, he gives a sad shrug and looks again at Rodney. 

"He's got an uncle," Rodney says, feeling a little choked. "You've got an uncle and, and, I don't know. Maybe you have cousins. Or second cousins. But your – John's parents are dead." 

Rodney's spent the last week feeling like he has no idea what to say. It's not usually a problem, but faced with Patrick, faced with this, he doesn't even know where to begin. He's been burning for years to tell Patrick everything, to let Patrick know he has the genes of the most courageous man Rodney's ever met. But now Rodney can't tell Patrick how John died, and suddenly it feels imperative that Patrick know everything else. 

"Here's another one for you," Kimberly says, breaking off a piece of her muffin and sticking it into her mouth. "When did his dad die?" 

"Pat was just about to," Rodney begins, but his voice breaks. "He was just about to turn one." 

It was at a time when Patrick had already learned to walk, which never failed to make John smile. They had a birthday party planned for Patrick – a plan which was later carried out by Teyla and Ronon, because Rodney was too much of a mess. 

"We were working together," Rodney says, and adds dejectedly, "Deep space telemetry. Colorado." 

And isn't that the biggest lie of them all.

"Afterwards, it got…I quit, and got a job offer in Boston, so we moved there." 

"Where," Kimberly interrupts, "a few years later, you slept with one of your students, who stupidly got pregnant, and added another motherless kid to the family." The look on her face is almost disinterested. 

Rodney thought there was nothing whole left in him to break, but hearing that matter-of-fact voice making that statement still shatters something inside of him. And, like every time they discuss Kimberly's mother, he is flooded with embarrassment. "I never wanted any of this, for either of you," he says, and surprises himself with the raw, honest quality of his voice. He wants to reach over the table and squeeze Kimberly's hand or something, but like always, the girl is like a fortress. 

"In a perfect world," Rodney says, "these things would never have happened. I'm sorry you both had to grow up with only one parent. Ideally, John would have lived and you" – he gestures at Patrick – "would have been happy, and we would never have left, erm, Colorado, and you" – he looks at Kimberly – "well, you…you would never have been born, actually."

Kimberly rolls her eyes. 

"In a perfect world I would never have been born, so what else is new?" she mutters. Before Rodney has time to try and explain and make more of an ass of himself in the process, she asks more loudly, "So what was Pat's real dad like?" 

Patrick looks taken aback by that – like it never even occurred to him to ask about what kind of person John was. He blinks, looking uncertain, like maybe he doesn't want to know. 

And Rodney – Rodney doesn't know where to begin. 

Patrick surely deserves to know the truth, to know everything. But how do you sum up a person in a few sentences? How do you tell someone about the biggest love of your life, when everything that you know about that person is muted, hidden under all that pain you've been pushing away all these years? When you've struggled with your emotions for two decades, how do you push it all aside for a few moments so you can give someone the explanation they deserve?

"He was a…a good man," is what Rodney finally manages. "John. He was a hero." 

"In the Air Force," Patrick says a little numbly. 

"In everything he ever did," Rodney says honestly. "Reckless, yes, and rebellious even at forty years old, but he saved lives. He did the right thing. He always did the right thing." Sometimes with disastrous consequences.

Kimberly looks like she has more to say, but she can see the yearning look that appears on Patrick's face just as well as Rodney can, and she subsides.

It's an unexpected question but, considering Patrick's current place of education, not a stupid one, when Patrick asks in a raspy voice, "What was his rank?" 

"Lieutenant Colonel," Rodney says immediately, swallowing against the lump in his throat and looking at his hands, clasped lightly in his lap. "Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard of the Unites States Air Force." 

It sounds just as pompous as it did twenty years ago. Back then, it made Rodney scoff; now it almost makes him cry.

Rodney can feel a corner of his mouth turning up in a sad little smile. His own voice is distant in his ears when he says, "He was so happy when he got promoted. Said there were people who'd never expected him to make it past Captain." He swallows, remembering the insignia John had been secretly eager to show to anyone who'd stay still long enough. "It took me a long time to stop calling him Major." 

Kimberly – tough little Kimberly, who usually keeps herself emotionally distant from everything surrounding her – suddenly touches Rodney's elbow. When he looks up, surprised, she smiles sadly at him. "You loved him," she says, and adds, "I'm sorry."

Her words make it sound like she's an outsider, and Rodney realizes with a sudden start that that's exactly what she is. While John was Rodney's partner and Patrick's father, he's nothing to Kimberly, who was born years after his death. All John is to Kimberly is this, this conversation right here – painful, melancholic memories from decades ago, the shadow of past happiness. 

Rodney is nevertheless blown away by this rare demonstration of empathy, and curls his fingers gratefully around Kimberly's. "I did," he says, though the words feel wrong in his mouth, badly shaped, inadequate. "You would have, too." Quietly, he adds, "He would have been your father, too." 

That's the point. It's what Rodney's been trying to tell both his children all their lives. This isn't complete; life wasn't supposed to be like this. They both should have another loving parent. They should have John, who would have adored them both, spoilt them rotten. John would have taken them roller-skating and sky-diving and he'd have brushed Rodney's concerns aside with a few relaxed words and a quick kiss, and he would have built them all a house and taught the kids how to love the sky, and the kids would never had got into such terrible fights with Rodney because John would always have taken their side. 

John would have taken care of all three of them.

It's like Kimberly can read Rodney's mind; there are tears in her eyes. He's never known her to be so emotional, so soft, but maybe she somehow senses what she's had to give up. She's got the best deal of them all, but even her life would have been so much better with John in it. Maybe she knows.

Patrick looks close to tears as well, squinting his eyes and looking pained. He breaks the silence, interferes with the fragile wordless bond that's suddenly appeared between Rodney and Kimberly, and asks very, very quietly, "Do I look anything like him?" 

Slowly, both Rodney and Kimberly turn to look at him. Kimberly tilts her head, an unhappy expression on her face, like she's trying to imagine, trying to see traces of someone else in Patrick's features. For all Rodney knows, they've both been doing it all their lives – looking for traces of their mothers. For Patrick, it must be even harder now. 

Rodney's voice is choked when he says truthfully, "You look exactly like him." 

Patrick stares at Rodney, looking like he wants nothing more than to believe, but can't quite bring himself to. 

Rodney says, "If he could pass you on the street now, he'd recognize you." 

This time, when tears start falling down Patrick's cheeks and he pushes his chair back and escapes to his room without a word, Rodney has to look away from his haunted eyes and wavering look. Rodney is used to Patrick crying in anger, in pain, in hate, but it's different from seeing him cry in sorrow.

 

+++

 

They don't talk about it in the morning. At the breakfast table, Rodney can't stop shooting worried glances at a subdued Patrick even while he asks Kimberly questions about her studies. Kimberly, who must feel the tension at the table as strongly as the men of the family do, blithely ignores any awkwardness and talks at length about her teachers. 

Rodney bites his tongue when he hears some of her stories, shocked enough to momentarily forget about Patrick's mood. He feels tempted to give MIT a call and offer to teach a few classes himself just to ensure she gets the knowledge she needs. 

Who knows when entire civilizations might end up depending on the thoroughness of her knowledge on the isotopic enrichment process of weapons-grade uranium? 

"I should have home-schooled you," Rodney says in mild despair. 

"Dad," Kimberly says, "I'm in university. No one can home-school a university student." 

"I could," Rodney argues. 

"Right," she says sardonically. "Who would hire me after I have a paper that says 'graduated from the University of Rodney McKay'?" 

Rodney thinks about that for a moment. "Honestly?" he says. "Pretty much anyone with a need for a great physicist. Just tell me where you want to go." 

It's enough to leave even Kimberly's jaw hanging open. 

"Whatever," mutters Patrick, as bored of Rodney's ego as John ever was, and attempts to practically dive into his coffee cup from his slouch over the table. Or at least mash his face into it.

He may be like John in most ways, but the not-functioning-before-coffee is pure Rodney. Rodney is sure of it. It's a trait all three of the McKays have in common. Rodney feels the impulse to say so, but keeps his mouth tightly shut, because he doesn't want to bring the topic up. He'll avoid it as long as he can. The kids will bring it up sooner or later, anyway, and then there will be more shouting matches and tears and that ugly, all-consuming sense of being detested taking over his entire body once again.

"Anyway," Kimberly says. "Aren't you the one who said I should go to university if only to see for myself what utter morons both the teachers and the students there are?" 

Rodney doesn't remember ever saying that, but he has to admit it sounds a lot like him. Nodding vaguely at Kimberly, he gestures impatiently, because she's always been good at reading his gestures and telling when he wants to change the subject.

"Alright," he says, because it's time to get this freak show of a family on the road. "What do you guys want to do today?" 

 

+++

 

Of all the places in Vancouver, they end up going to the zoo. 

Rodney isn't sure how it happened. He wanted to go to one of the new planetary museums in town, where they arrange oversimplified and somewhat erroneous yet surprisingly entertaining 3D shows of starry skies, and a calm woman's voice talks about the first and the second manned flights to Mars. Failing that, he wanted to take Kimberly to his work lab and show him the new telescope they just purchased, but Patrick vetoed the idea, stating they could do the more advanced space stuff after he left town. 

Kimberly shrugged and seemed uninterested in anything, which was par for course for her. She said something about ice cream and nail polish and buying a new motion sensor for her laptop, and didn't contribute to the discussion. Patrick wondered out loud what normal families did on vacation. 

How that led to the newly-opened Vancouver Zoo, where Kimberly licks happily at her two scoops of chocolate and Patrick attempts to catch the attention of every dangerous beast they pass, Rodney doesn't know. 

The kids, all evidence to the contrary, are too old to be here, and Rodney feels utterly out of place. A boy of five or six stares up at him with solemn eyes while he stands by the cage of the lion as Patrick talks to the overgrown and overly deathly cat like it's the cutest kitten he's ever seen. Rodney feels distinctly uncomfortable and tries to shoo the boy away without being conspicuous about it. 

Kimberly amuses herself for a prolonged period of time talking to a parrot that keeps telling her to either keep quiet or fuck off. Rodney taps his foot and fingers the small computer-telephone hybrid in his pocket wistfully. 

"I'll go look at the bears," Patrick says as the parrot tells Kimberly exactly where to shove it and she howls with laughter. 

"Okay, um, we'll catch up, okay?" Rodney says. He sounds just like he always did when the kids were still actually kids. He tried to be firm and knowing and giving directions and advice and commands, and all he ever managed were fumbled suggestions if not outright pleas that usually got shot down. 

"Yeah," says Patrick in a tone that signals he's not really listening, and wanders off. 

"That goddamn bird knew so many swear words I don't think even I had heard them all before," Kimberly says, bright-eyed and grinning as she shows up from the birdhouse.

Rodney tunes out her foul language. It's the way she is, and no amount of washing her mouth with soap would ever have helped. Not that he ever dared try. 

"Pat went to see the bears," Rodney says instead, and motions in the direction of the bear cages. 

"Okay," Kimberly says, heading for the given direction. "Buy me another ice cream?" 

When they get to the bears, Kimberly licking delightedly at her scoop of nougat – honestly, Rodney can buy her all the ice cream in the world and she'll never start feeling ill or gain an ounce, so what's the problem? She wants ice cream, so he buys her ice cream, because it seems that they don't have it in Boston since she's so hungry for it, and really, he's done worrying about whether his kids are eating properly, he knows they aren't, anyway, he's _done worrying_ – there's a man talking to tourists while throwing disgusting, wet fish over the fence for the one angry-looking bear behind it.

"We call this one Richard," he's saying, loudly so everyone can hear him. "He's been with us for three months now." 

Richard the bear gives the wet fish that splash on the rocky ground a disdainful look that Rodney can completely sympathize with. Then it makes an angry, bear-like sound, and comes a little closer to the staring rows of eyes. 

"He's not fully grown yet, as you can see," the worker says, stopping in his efforts to feed the bear and wiping a sleeve over his sweaty forehead. "And for some reason, he refuses to eat." 

Rodney isn't surprised. He wouldn't eat smelly, cold fish served on a sun-warmed rock, either. 

"You said he was an orphan. What happened to his parents?" asks a familiar voice tightly, and Rodney looks over the gathering crowd to see Patrick standing next to the man. The look on his face, however, is one Rodney has never seen before, part determination and part fear. 

"Oh, Jesus," Rodney says as he gets that feeling again, the one that tells him things are headed for disaster. As per usual, he has no idea what's going on, or how to stop whatever it is he's supposed to stop. He just knows that he's definitely not in control of anything any more. 

"We don't know," the man says, his voice nearly drowned out by the chatter of tourists, and Rodney pricks up his ears, standing on tip-toe. "They were found in the same area as Richard, both of them dead without any wounds or other injuries." 

"Poor bear," coos some inane tourist, waving cheerfully at the bear. 

"It's bothering him," Kimberly says, her voice sudden and piercing. With just three words, she manages to make Rodney tune out everyone else and turn to look at her. 

"What's bothering him?" Rodney asks. And who are they talking about, anyway? The bear? The zoo worker? The President of the United States? 

"That he doesn't know what happened to his father," Kimberly says, complete with an irritated eye-roll. 

Oh. They're talking about Patrick.

"Wait," Rodney says. "Did he _tell_ you that?" 

"No," she says and rolls her eyes again, the _duh_ clear in her tone of voice. "I've known him all my life; I can tell when something's bothering him."

Rodney has known Patrick all of Patrick's life, and yet he's never been any good at reading him. 

"How do you know it's his, his, his father, and not something, uh, Air Force related?" Rodney says quickly, words slurring together in their haste to get out of his mouth. 

She gestures with the ice cream cone in a manner that Rodney wants to interpret as rude, but doesn't, because he's never been any good at reading her, either. "Because he keeps a diary where he writes all his heartbreaks and sorrows, and I read it," she says.

Rodney blinks. "Really?"

Kimberly glares at him. "No," she says. "But it was the most important thing he wanted to know about his father, and you couldn't tell him. Hell, _I'm_ dying to know what happened, and the guy wasn't even my dad."

Rodney fingers the computer hybrid in his pocket and wills it to ring, but disasters never happen when you need them to. "He was," he says quietly. 

Kimberly is momentarily derailed, looking at Rodney with curious eyes. She shakes it off and says emphatically, "You need to tell him how his father died." 

"I can't. I've signed so many non-disclosure agreements with the US Military that it's a miracle my hand still works," he says. 

"He needs, I don’t know, some sort of weird closure, I guess," Kimberly says impatiently. "Look, whatever he says, you have to know this is a big thing for him. You, you – you need to know who you are before you can become what you want to be. And that's where he is right now, Dad. He's trying to be someone new, he's trying to be _himself_ for the first time in his life, and he went all the way to Colorado to do it, just so he could do it on his own terms. He needs to know about, about, about John." 

The name falls awkwardly from Kimberly's lips, like she isn't sure she has permission to say it out loud. 

Rodney, starting to feel a little desperate, says, "I _can't_ ," pleading at her to understand. There are things better left buried, and no father should ever have to tell his kids about evil as unimaginable as the Wraith. 

"You have to," Kimberly insists. "Come on, Dad, it's been twenty years. It's not like they're going to come and get you for telling the truth about John to his own son." 

This time, she forces the name out without fumbling or flinching, but when she's finished, she grits her teeth. Rodney doesn't know what else to do but stare.

"You wouldn't even believe me if I told you," he says eventually, at a loss. "And it's, it's. Classified."

"God's sake!" Kimberly snaps, her voice rising. "I want to know, and more than that, Pat _deserves_ to know, and _I don't give a fuck what the United States Air Force has to say about it_!" 

The immediate crowd around them falls silent, and Kimberly snaps her mouth shut. She doesn't blush, doesn't even look embarrassed, but throws the rest of her melted ice cream away sharply, looking frustrated beyond words. Patrick pushes his way to them, gives Rodney a glare that makes it clear he heard enough to draw conclusions, and nudges Kimberly a little roughly. "Let's get the hell out of here," he says gruffly, and without waiting for any sort of response, starts marching towards the main gates. 

No one says a word while they make their way to the parking lot, Patrick taking point with his ridiculously long legs and Kimberly having to jog from time to time to keep up with them. She doesn't look at Rodney. Patrick doesn't look back once, either. Rodney debates dropping out of their little group of misfits and going to the nearest café – or the nearest bar – and letting the kids have a shouting match over the roof of the Jaguar in peace. 

Patrick yanks open the passenger side door and drops into the seat while Kimberly crawls into the back, for once without complaint. Rodney takes a deep breath while still standing outside the car and then gets in behind the wheel. Sticking the key into the ignition, he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, where to look.

"I'm sorry," he says to Patrick, even though he has no idea what he's apologizing for. 

"I was trying to get him to tell the truth," Kimberly interjects from the back seat.

Patrick jerks around to look at her. "Stay out of this!" he practically spits, so full of anger and fire that Rodney feels the need to crawl away. "This is none of your business!"

Rodney shifts nervously in his seat. He doesn't dare start driving. He'll drive them into a wall if he tries to steer now.

"He would have been my father, too!" Kimberly says, matching Patrick's volume. "You know Dad never loved my mother! And she never loved me. Don’t you get it?" 

She knows, Rodney thinks numbly. She knows everything. She sees, and she understands, even without being told everything. She understands who John was, who he would have been. 

He starts the car with shaking hands and doesn't even realize what he's doing until they're already in the traffic. Somewhat terrified, he squeezes the wheel harder, trying to tune out the two desperate voices of his loved ones and drive them all home safely. 

"I'm in the Air Force!" Patrick practically screams. A detached part of Rodney's brain tries to correct that technically, Patrick is not in the military just yet, but Rodney ignores it and keeps his eyes firmly on the road, concentrating on breathing evenly. "I know what a non-disclosure agreement means, and how important it is! Classified means it's better if people don't know!" 

"Better for whom?" asks Kimberly sarcastically. "Don't tell me you aren't dying to know. Don't give me that shit." 

Patrick deflates a little. "Of course I want to know," he says gruffly. "Of course I want Dad to tell me. But I want _you_ to stay out of it!" 

"You don't want to know," Rodney thinks, and, when two pairs of eyes turn to stare at him oddly, realizes with a start he said it out loud. 

"I think I should be the judge of that," Patrick says finally, his tone conversational. 

They're silent for a moment, all of them staring desolately out of different windows, and it's not until they're at the last crossroads before home that Rodney breaks the silence and says, "It's not a pretty story. It's just, it's not pretty. At all."

Patrick's voice is broken when he says, "You are not helping, Dad."

They're all drained, tired, worn to pieces, and no one says anything further. Once they get to Rodney's apartment, the kids immediately escape to their rooms and close the doors firmly. 

Rodney stands in the middle of the living-room for a moment, trying to hear any sounds coming from the rooms, but there is nothing. There is nothing.

 

+++

 

During the several silent hours that Patrick and Kimberly spend in their respective rooms, thinking or crying or just coping, Rodney doesn't know what, Rodney himself stays in the kitchen and makes dinner. 

That night, preparing dinner takes a long time. 

Once the dust has settled, the echo of the words spoken has faded, and all that is left of Patrick's sorrow and rage is the feeling in the pit of Rodney's stomach that he has been rubbed raw and vulnerable, Rodney calls the kids to the table. To his surprise, they both come – though neither of them makes eye contact.

The dinner is eaten in less than twenty minutes. Once they have all stopped eating and Rodney and Patrick are sitting there with their forks and knives on their empty plates while Kimberly keeps pushing her food around on hers, Rodney finally raises his head and looks at his kids. 

"Before dessert, I'd like to propose a game," he says. 

Kimberly tenses, but doesn't look up from her food. Patrick says, "Dad, are you serious? I don't want to play anything." 

"It's not that sort of game," Rodney says darkly. 

It isn't. It's the sort of game that will give them all sleepless nights. It's the game Rodney plays in his head on all his sleepless nights. 

Patrick leans back in his seat and sighs. Sarcastically and mockingly, he asks, "What kind of a game is it, then?" 

"It's a science fiction strategy game," Rodney says. He starts piling up the plates, yanking Kimberly's away from beneath her relentless fork, to get them out of the way. "It's a game where you two represent the greatest minds of humankind. We're all under attack from an enemy and it's your job to figure out how to beat them. How to survive." 

At that, even Kimberly looks up, and both kids stare at Rodney warily. "That doesn't sound like a fun game, Dad," Patrick says, sounding a little choked. 

"I know," Rodney says, pushing the rest of the silverware to the end of the table. "But I think we should play it anyway." 

Fictional, theoretical games should always be part of the upbringing of any child, and they certainly have always had a strong presence in the McKay household. The only way to explain theory of relativity to a five-year-old is by outrageous, imagination-filled examples. Even chess is, after all, nothing but war.

Besides, you can tell people anything if they think it's not real. 

Kimberly says wearily, "Okay." 

Patrick watches them both for a moment, still looking wary, but eventually he shrugs. "Alright. What are the rules?" 

"You're the head of the military," Rodney says to him. To Kimberly, he says, "And you're the head of science. Neither of you has the final say, but your opinions carry a lot of weight." 

"Who are you, then?" Patrick asks. 

"I'm everyone else. I'm the one who makes the decisions based on your recommendations. I'm the military's advisor and Kim's second-in-command. I also tell you what happens next." 

"What happens next? Like, we're supposed to come up with a strategy and then you'll shoot it down?" Kimberly says, but she doesn't sound indignant, just weary. 

Rodney ignores her. "It starts out like this: we have a lot of technology. We have small space ships, but they aren't powerful enough to win against a whole fleet of enemy ships. We have a shield over the base, but a limited amount of power. We have a cloak that will make us invisible to the enemy, but it can only be used when the shield is not in use. We have more powerful weapons than the enemy does, but they outnumber us by far."

"This makes no sense," Patrick says. "This is stupid." 

"You'll get the hang of it," Rodney promises darkly. "One more thing: the enemy cannot be let into the base. There is information there that could wipe out everyone on Earth. Our first goal has to be remaining in control of the base."

In the silence that follows, Patrick says grudgingly, "Alright. Where do we start?" 

 

+++

 

Under different circumstances, Rodney thinks nauseously, this would be fun. Hell, it looks like the kids enjoy it even now. They are extremely clever – not that that's any surprise to Rodney – and they need hardly any hints to arrive at the right conclusions. They're creative and they bicker amongst themselves, disagreeing about the application of scientific methods to military tactics until Rodney interrupts them and declares the issue irrelevant under the circumstances. 

Of course they would enjoy it. To them, it's a game, a puzzle set up by their weird and intellect-oriented old father. 

"Destroying the enemy fleet's main weapon has to be our primary goal," Patrick says. 

"But we've never seen anything like it before!" Kimberly argues. "For all we know, blowing it up might start huge a chain reaction! Our base might blow up as well!" 

"What do you think this is, Star Wars?" Patrick says. "We have the shield, anyway, and it's likely to protect us from the blast." 

"You both have a point," Rodney says. "But the data from our scout ship shows that Patrick's right; we can blow up the weapon without destroying ourselves. The catch is, it has to be one precise hit, and a big enough blast. The dro– the only weapons at our disposal would create a series of too small hits, which would, as Kimberly said, amount to an explosion big enough to take down not only the enemy fleet and our shield, but all of us as well." 

"Alright," Patrick says. "So we come up with another way to blast the thing." He looks at his sister.

Kimberly looks blankly back. She shrugs and turns to Rodney. "A bomb? Can we build a bomb?" 

"I don't know," Rodney says. "Can you?" 

Kimberly gives him an unimpressed look. "Do we have _parts_ , Dad?" 

"We do, as a matter of fact."

She shrugs again, casual. "Then sure, we can build a bomb." 

"Alright," Rodney says, and it feels like his skin turns a couple of degrees colder again. His heart beats a little faster. "So you're building the bomb. Next question: How do we deliver it?

Patrick and Kimberly think about this for a moment. Finally, Patrick says, "You said we have more of those small space ships, right? Like the scout ship we sent up? Then all we have to do is send one of them to deliver the bomb directly into the primary target." 

"Yes," Rodney says, and snaps his fingers, pointing at Patrick. "But there's a problem: the ships weren't designed to deliver bombs like this one. The projectile system that you" – he nods at Kimberly – "are building isn't fully functional yet. The, uh, the primary target, the enemy weapon, is an hour's journey away, but we can't wait for much longer, because after that hour our power supply will be completely drained and the shield will collapse. If we can't get the projectile system to work while the ship is on its way to the target, the ship will have to be flown directly into the target, with the bomb." 

"So it may be a one-way trip," Patrick says. He shifts in his seat, restless, and comes to slouch in the other direction. "I'm the best pilot around, and I'm the military commander. I'll go." 

Rodney can feel his mouth settling into a thin line but is helpless to do anything about it. Everything around him feels surreal. This isn't really happening, he thinks. This is all a dream. Jerkily, he nods. "If you feel like it's your responsibility."

"I should go with him," Kimberly says. "So I can finish the projectile system on the way. I'm the best bet on getting us out of there in one piece." 

Her eyes are blue, determined and intelligent, and her mouth is a touch lopsided. Looking at her feels as though a cold hand is holding Rodney by the spine. He feels like he's looking at himself in the mirror – twenty years ago. Only, this time the blue eyes don't show any fear, don't show any of the terror that was building in Rodney's stomach at the time, making him almost throw up on every step of the way. 

"You can't," Rodney says flatly. 

"Why not?" Kimberly asks. "I'm the best person for the job, 'smartest person in two galaxies,' you said so yourself!" 

Rodney ignores her. "But another one of the scientists volunteers. We can send him with Patrick, and you can stay on base and work on the system and advise the scientist from here." 

"That's absurd!" Kimberly says. "I have to be in the ship with him. I'm the one who designed it; I'm the only one who's up to speed about it! I can do it faster than anyone else! Wasting time on explaining things to someone stupider than me is only going to –"

"You can't go," Rodney interrupts harshly, "because the two of you are raising a kid together, and the risk that you might both get killed is one you can't take." 

Kimberly sits there, dumbfounded, her blue eyes wide. "But," she says.

Patrick pales to the point where it looks unnatural, his skin almost white. He stares at Rodney with his eyes wide open, and Rodney stares quietly back. Patrick blinks twice, shifting his gaze from Rodney's eyes to his chin, and draws in on himself.

Kimberly gets it a split second later, and the expression on her face goes blank. She looks at her hands, clasped on the table in front of her, and says with deceptive calm, "Are you telling me that I'll have to wait here for an entire hour while the other parent of my child goes off on a possible suicide mission without doing much of anything?" 

"Yes," Rodney croaks out, and his throat is so dry, so tight, that it feels like swallowing knives. He realizes, as he sees Patrick turn to Kimberly with a look of horror on his face, that she phrased the sentence crudely on purpose. Patrick makes a sound so raw, so panicked and horrified, that Rodney wants to take it back, take back all of it, turn back time to the end of the meal, to undo their little game. 

He sits up a little straighter. He's doing this for a reason. There are things he's not allowed to tell Patrick, but there's nothing stopping him from playing vicious, unrealistic science fiction strategy games with him. 

Patrick looks at Rodney over the table, and this time it's not one or two tears sliding down his cheeks, but a flood of them. Silence settles over the table.

"This is it, Dad," Patrick says finally, his voice raw but unwavering. "We've got a solution. She builds me a bomb and I fly away with it. Now, you tell us. What happens?" 

Rodney closes his eyes and draws a breath that doesn't feel like it fills his lungs at all. The air around them is thin and evanescent. He can't breathe. 

It's the same solution they came to twenty years ago, when the world was different and he woke up every morning in the same bed with John Sheppard, Patrick Sheppard wailing in the next room. The thing is, if Patrick and Kimberly can't, in a completely theoretical setting and without the pressure of the world on their shoulders, come up with anything other than this, maybe there really was nothing more he could have done. 

He opens his eyes and looks at Patrick.

"You take the bomb and the scientist and fly off into space, and Kim gives the scientist advice on the radio. He gets the hang of it, and, against all odds, finishes the system just in time."

Rodney takes another breath of unfulfilling, bleak air. 

"As you begin your final approach on the target, she goes over the numbers. The power levels in the ci– on base are dropping to minimal. The results she gets don't match, and she wastes no time informing your scientist about it. They get into a shouting match, both of them so sure the other has got it wrong. You would go with what's already been put in motion and fire away, but you trust her over everyone and everything else." 

He pauses, because there is no air left. No air at all. 

Patrick has a look on his face, one of both determination and despair. When Rodney hesitates, he says very quietly, "And because there is no more _time_ , while the two of them argue, I change course one more time, and fly us into the enemy ship instead of just firing the bomb." 

Rodney feels tears rolling down his cheeks, otherwise unaware that he's even crying. He says wistfully, "You shout over both their voices, you shout her name, and when they abruptly stop talking, you say you love her and you tell her to tell your kid you love him, and you crash the ship exactly right, and," and there's a weight in Rodney's throat so heavy he can't breathe, can't think, can't talk, but he says anyway, forced and scratchy and wavering, "the explosion takes out the enemy ships, and it takes out you." 

Rodney slumps against the table, head down, and breathes out. Finally, finally, he's done. For a moment, all he's aware of is the memory of John's voice in his ear, clear as if he were hearing it anew. Rodney. I love you. Tell Pat I love him. I love you. I love you.

The table is solid beneath him, his sweaty hands slipping on its surface. Slowly, awareness starts creeping back in. He pushes himself back up, a little straighter than he was before, and braces himself before looking at his kids. 

The expression on Patrick's face is a mixture of utter disbelief and appalled hopelessness. Kimberly doesn't look much better, her calm mask slipping in places to reveal candid hysteria underneath. 

Rodney takes a long time clearing his throat and unbuttoning his shirt a little further at the collar, wiping absently at the wetness on his cheeks. "You save a lot of lives," he says, and all the emotion is gone from his voice. He's drained, empty. "Including the lives of your loved ones. Your kid. You save your kid." 

"So without me…" Patrick trails off helplessly, making a vague gesture in the air, and looks at Rodney hopelessly. 

"No," Rodney says emphatically when he realizes Patrick isn't talking about the game anymore. "No. Don't ever think any of it was your fault. Come on." 

Patrick is looking away and biting his lip, looking like a small, lost boy instead of a young man with plans for a military career. 

"Pat, _think about it_ ," Rodney says, because Patrick is not listening. Patrick has to know, but more than that, he has to understand. "Think about it. _You would have made the same call_." 

Slowly, so very slowly, Patrick eventually nods, and the heavy breath that escapes him is not far from a sigh. "I would have made the same call," he says softly. 

"And what happens to me?" Kimberly asks just as softly. "What do I do?" 

Oh, god. After all this, it's the last thing in the world Rodney wants to be talking about, but he's too tired, too worn to put up a fight. In all honesty, he's too worn to even mind all that much. 

"You spend all night going over the numbers, and it all points to the same direction. Your calculations were right. If J– if Patrick had fired instead of crashing the ship, he would have missed the target by a small but crucial amount, and the base would likely have been wiped out." Rodney pauses, biting hard on his tongue. He really, really doesn't want John's name to slip out, not under these circumstances, not when they're talking about his last moments as though it were a television show. 

Patrick closes his eyes and sits at the table, frozen like a statue.

"You take the kid," Rodney says to Kimberly, leaving out the bit where Keller had kept him sedated for two days in the infirmary in the aftermath, because he'd been hyperventilating and zoning out and completely out of control. "You take the kid home, to where you lived before, and you try to have a good life, and you don't talk about what happened for twenty years." 

Patrick sniffles, wiping at his nose messily with the back of his hand. He is completely unembarrassed to be seen crying so openly, so caught up in emotion that it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all. He stands up so abruptly that even Kimberly startles. 

"I'm going to bed," he announces tightly, and leaves in the direction of his room.

It's ridiculously early, but Rodney just nods numbly. It's probably for the best. He waits in silence for a while and then looks at Kimberly. "Do you, uh. Do you want dessert?" 

It's the stupidest question he's asked in a very long time, possibly ever, and the timing couldn't be more inappropriate. Kimberly brushes her hair from her face and tries on a wan smile that looks completely fake. She lets the smile fall. 

"Have we got any chocolate?" she asks.

Rodney thinks about the coffee he loaded into the maker and the dry cake he bought to go with it. He thinks of his emergency stash of really good chocolate. In his book, this rates as an emergency just as frightening as a Wraith attack. Without a word, he goes to the kitchen and comes back with two handfuls of chocolate bars, throwing them all on the table. Kimberly picks one up, tears open the wrapper and bites into it. 

Patrick resurfaces from his room to go to the bathroom, where he spends a very long time. Rodney goes through two chocolate bars in the meantime. On the way back to his room, clad in a t-shirt and boxers that leave his thin, hairy legs bare, Patrick pauses by the table and squints his tear-reddened eyes suspiciously at the diminishing pile of chocolate. With quick movements he grabs a couple of bars for himself, turns around with a murmured good-night and heads for his room. 

"Pat," Rodney says abruptly, and Patrick freezes at the door of his room. He doesn't turn around, but he waits. He waits and he listens, and that's something. 

"I just wanted to, uh, make sure you knew, er," Rodney fumbles. He takes yet another deep breath. "The last thing your father said to me was to tell you he loved you. So. Patrick. Your father loved you." He swallows. "And he would love you, today, if he was still here. I just. I just want to make sure you know that." 

Patrick's head goes down and back up in a gesture that Rodney interprets as a nod, and then Patrick slips into his room and closes the door behind him, disappearing out of sight. 

 

+++

 

That night, when silence has fallen over his home and the kids are snug in their beds, hopefully sleeping peacefully instead of having nightmares, courtesy of Rodney's ill-advised attempts to let them in on a secret, Rodney drops to his knees in the middle of his bedroom and detaches the bottom panel of the drawer of his desk. He sticks his hand deep into the tiny, dark space and fumbles for a moment until his fingers finally get hold of the dusty envelope within. He pulls it out and opens it, letting its precious contents fall onto the floor. 

In the light of his desk lamp, he carefully spreads the pictures and documents in a half-circle in front of him, fingering the worn corners of old photographs. They're remarkably well preserved, thanks to Rodney's occasional attempts to take care of them, spray them with whatever is the hottest thing for photography preservation in the market at the moment, try and make sure they last as long as possible. 

He picks up one of John at 41 years, wearing his dress blues and his silver leaves, unruly hair poking out from under the cap. His trademark smirk is in place, and his eyes sparkle at the camera. Rodney picks up another one of John, one where he's wearing a black t-shirt and holding his TAC vest in his hands, looking at someone out of frame with a dumb, open-mouthed expression on his face. Then Rodney picks up one where he's with John, the two of them wearing all their gear and talking heatedly. Ronon's arm has also made it to the picture. Rodney selects another one where he and John are together, taken when they were on R&R in the mainland, sitting back-to-front on the beach in shorts and t-shirts, Rodney talking about something while John has his arms wrapped around Rodney and his face buried in the nape of Rodney's neck. Half of John's grin is visible. 

On top of it all, Rodney selects one where John is casually sitting at a table, looking thoughtfully at the screen of his laptop, while little Patrick sits in his lap, dark-haired and sparkly-eyed, and flails his tiny arms at Rodney behind the camera. 

Rodney feeds all five pictures into his computer. The computer beeps faintly before scanning over them, sharpening the lines and adjusting the colors and wiping away twenty years from the surface of each picture. When all five pictures, all five Johns, stare at Rodney from the screen, they look so new, so vivid, so real, that for a moment, Rodney forgets the last twenty years have happened at all. 

He prints out new copies, which come out glossy and perfect, and stuffs them into another blank envelope. He leaves the envelope sitting on his desk, almost falling out of his chair back in the middle of the rest of the old photographs. He can write in where and when each picture was taken later. Now he needs to pack the happiest instants of John's life back into an envelope and stuff it all into the dark. 

Instead of packing it all up right away, Rodney finds himself slowly going through what few pictures were ever taken in Pegasus and made it to Earth with him, looking at John smiling, smirking, slouching, leaning, and, on some occasions, kissing Rodney. There are pictures of John angry, in his dress uniform, wearing nothing, working on the computer, playing with Patrick. Rodney comes across a picture where Patrick is nothing but a bundle in John's arms, and the look on John's face is enough to break hearts – so happy. 

Stuffing a fist into his mouth to keep from crying out, Rodney slumps further down into a ball on the floor and squeezes his eyes shut, stubborn tears still leaking out. He feels alone, he feels dejected, he feels hated, he feels like he's failed. A wheezing sob escapes his mouth, mercifully quiet, and Rodney pulls his hand out of his mouth and buries his face in his hands instead, pressing so hard on his eyes with the heels of his hands that he sees stars. The tears still don't stop.

Oh, John.

 

+++

 

Rodney knows his relationship with Patrick will never be the same again. He just hopes it will change for the better.

They come to a sort of truce during the last days of Patrick's visit. Neither of them mentions John again. Even Kimberly keeps her mouth shut, opting instead to talk physics. Math and physics always make more sense than decades-old emotional trauma. 

Something in Patrick has changed, Rodney muses. Maybe finding out about John was, to Patrick, like discovering a previously missing part of his identity. Maybe it's comforting for Patrick to know that it's just not him whose recklessness causes Rodney to react with disapproval. Maybe Patrick now has an explanation for his impulsive, careless behavior. Maybe. Rodney certainly doesn't ask. 

Having learned about John and his death, Patrick also comes to look at Rodney in a new light. It's like Rodney is now less of an enemy. Now that Patrick has an inkling how difficult things have been for Rodney, he seems less inclined to blame him for anything. For everything. 

Rodney only hopes their unspoken truce will continue. He also hopes it won't be another five years before he gets to find out. 

"There are some…things here," Rodney says, offering Patrick the precious envelope. "Pictures, and…phone numbers and Air Force paperwork and such." The Air Force paperwork, detailing John's black mark, is definitely not something Rodney is in any way allowed to show Patrick, not something he's supposed to have in the first place, but after their horrible little game, Rodney is past caring.

Patrick stares at the envelope like he hasn't seen one in his life. Granted, no one uses them anymore. All data, including pictures of long-lost loved ones, is best stored in electronic form. 

He takes the envelope, clearly baffled, and hesitates for a moment, hand hovering over the seal. "Thanks," he says blankly. 

"For god's sake," Rodney blurts out, "don't open it until you've gone." 

Confused, but now slightly amused as well, Patrick looks up and then bends down to slip the envelope into his bag. "Right," he says, straightening back up. He sticks his sunglasses into his pocket and fiddles with the hem of his shirt, looking down. "Well. It's been…enlightening." 

Rodney offered to give him a ride to the airport, but Patrick wanted to meet up with some friends who were passing by Vancouver, and he'll be leaving town with them. Rodney's pathetically grateful to have the opportunity to say goodbye at home, in peace – it's so easy to lose someone in the crowd of an airport, so easy for the heavy goodbye to become nothing more than an impersonal wave. 

"You know you're welcome here anytime, right?" Rodney says, even though he definitely hadn't intended to. 

Patrick gives him an unreadable look, like he knows but doesn't like acknowledging it, and doesn't say anything. 

"I, uh," Rodney says. "Good luck with the…Air Force. I'm sure you'll, uh…you'll do great." 

He bites back words, sentences: Don’t crash any planes. Avoid black marks. For god's sake, don't die. The commands, pleas, stick in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. 

"Thanks," Patrick says, somewhat dryly. 

"Do you need money?" Rodney asks, hopefully, because that's the one way he knows he could be useful in Patrick's distant life. 

Patrick gives him a slightly disbelieving look and says even more dryly, "I'm good, thanks." 

Maybe the sums Rodney's been sending him have been somewhat excessive. 

Kimberly steps up from somewhere behind Rodney and easily, _so easily_ steps closer to Patrick and wraps her considerably shorter frame around him. Patrick returns the hug, and the siblings, who aren't siblings at all except in every way that matters, cling to each other like it's the most natural thing in the world. And it is. It should be.

"Have fun," is all Kimberly says.

"Yeah." Patrick gives her the tiniest smile. "You, too." 

Patrick fiddles with his wristband, twisting and turning it, and suddenly all of Rodney's in-built walls just come crashing down and he says, "They haven't approached you about a top secret project yet, have they?" 

Patrick shakes his head. "What makes you think they would do that?" 

Rodney snorts. "The military knows that you're John Sheppard's kid and that you have…well, that you're particularly suited for a certain assignment. Plus, if you've inherited any of his skills, which, judging by the cocky flyboy attitude, you have, they'll want you even more. And it doesn't hurt that you can do math in your head." 

"Sounds promising," Patrick says dryly, but Rodney thinks he can see a faint glimmer of interest in Patrick's eyes. 

"It might take some time, though. I'm pretty sure they don't want complete rookies there." Rodney smiles crookedly. "But I could probably pull a few strings and get you there sooner, if you…if you want to go…home."

Patrick meets Rodney's gaze head on, and this time, his eyes are shining just a little. Forgetting about the wristband he's been fiddling with, Patrick straightens even further, not breaking the eye contact. Deep, consuming silence settles over the room. 

Patrick has grown a few inches taller than Rodney by now. With his hazel eyes and dark hair, he looks exactly like John must have looked at the same age. He's handsome, and for a moment, Rodney feels nothing but pride. For a moment, he looks into Patrick's eyes, and thinks he can see into Patrick's soul. 

"Home," Patrick says. He holds out a hand. "Sounds promising." 

Patrick's hand is in the air, slightly bent backwards and fingers spread, so that he's offering rather the palm than the whole hand. Rodney clasps it and squeezes, glad that Patrick is offering him such a polite goodbye, only to find himself pulled into a hug. 

Closing his eyes against the threatening tears, Rodney wraps an arm around Patrick's back, and squeezes even harder.

 


End file.
